In Love with the King's Spy (Hidden Identity) Read online

  In Love with

  the King's Spy

  Colleen French

  Copyright © 1998, 2018 by Colleen French. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of The Evan Marshall Agency, 1 Pacio Court, Roseland, NJ 07068-1121,

  [email protected].

  Version 1.0

  This work is a novel. Any similarity to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.

  Published by The Evan Marshall Agency. Originally published by Kensington Publishing Corp., New York, under the title Once More and under the name Colleen Faulkner.

  Cover by The Killion Group

  Hatred stirreth up strifes, but love conquereth all sins . . .

  Solomon

  Book of Proverbs

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Epilogue

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Prologue

  The Cliffs of Dover, England

  September, 1660

  Julia closed her eyes and felt the bitter wind against her face. It tore at her unbound hair and whipped at her new wool and ermine cloak, a costly gift from her betrothed.

  She felt numb. Was it because of the teeth-chattering cold or because, as she stood here on the precipice, she felt her hopes, her dreams, dying? All these years through the war, she had imagined that one day she would be rescued from her father's decaying house by a handsome lord. His lordship would marry her, take her away to a foreign land, and love her more than life. She knew it was just a dream, a girlhood fancy, but it was difficult to let go of that dream just the same.

  Steadying herself with one hand on the crumbling wall, she hesitantly slid one foot and then the other forward, until the toes of her kidskin slippers hung off the edge of the tower floor. Chunks of deteriorated mortar fell and hit the rocks below. She did not hear them splash as they made their final descent into the ocean far below.

  Julia held her breath and imagined that she was one of those ill-fated bits of mortar. She wondered how easy it would be to let go of the disintegrating wall and drop into the cold depths of the waves. Did the mortar feel terror, or dull acceptance? Was there, at the last moment, a certain sense of relief before death?

  The ermine lining of her new cloak ruffled in the wind, brushing the sensitive flesh of her throat. Instead of feeling soft as it should have, it felt as abrasive as spun steel. She hated the cloak. She hated he who sent it. She hated her mother for making her wear the cloak. She hated her mother for making her marry him.

  "I would miss you if you went away to our Lord Jesus . . ."

  The sound of her younger sister's voice startled Julia, and she gripped the wall tightly. Fearing she might lose her balance and plummet off the tower ruin, she took a step back and opened her eyes. "Lizzy! What are you doing up here? You'll catch your death in this cold!"

  Lizzy drew her patched brown woolen cloak tightly around her shoulders. "You wouldn't do it, would you, Sister? You wouldn't leave me."

  Julia had always wondered how Lizzy had the innate ability to read others' thoughts. Her mind damaged since early childhood, after an exceedingly high fever, she barely had the sense to get in out of a hailstorm, yet Lizzy was exceptionally sensitive to the feelings of others. Sometimes she seemed to understand Julia's thoughts better than Julia understood them herself.

  Julia offered her sister her cold hand. "I just came up here to think . . . to say goodbye."

  Lizzy narrowed her pretty eyes. "Not to jump into the ocean and go to Lord Jesus?"

  Julia thought a long moment before she replied. Had she climbed the crumbling tower steps to contemplate suicide? Had she actually considered the choice of death over marriage to the Earl of St. Martin? Had she thought herself willing to abandon her sister and mother to the perils of poverty, rather than marry a man she did not like?

  Julia lifted her lashes and gazed into Lizzy's blue eyes, eyes as blue as the heavens. "Silly chick." She squeezed her sister's petite hand in her own. "I wouldn't leave you."

  "Not ever?"

  "Not ever. I just came to say goodbye to the ocean. There's no ocean in London, you know."

  "London? Is that the house?" Lizzy's yellow blond hair fluttered in the wind, framing her oval face.

  How Julia envied her sister's perfect blond hair. Her own hair had too much red in it; her father had called it strawberry. "No. London is the place, the city. Bassett Hall is the house. That's where we'll be living, you and I."

  Lizzy thrust out her lower lip. She was strikingly beautiful, even when she pouted. "But you'll no longer sleep with me. St. Martin will sleep in your bed, and I will have to sleep with Drusilla and her cold, bony feet."

  Julia laughed and hugged her sister as she turned her around. "Better to sleep with Drusilla and her feet than Mother and her snoring."

  The sisters laughed in unison, Lizzy's voice the higher-pitched of the two.

  "Race you down the steps," Julia dared.

  "And ruin my slippers? I think not!"

  But the moment Julia darted down the winding stone steps, Lizzy bolted after her.

  "Mother says the coach is ready," Lizzy called. "Race you to London."

  Running her hand along the cold stone wall, Julia descended the steps as fast as she could, her heart pounding. It was time to say goodbye to the disintegrating walls of the home of her childhood, the home of her father's childhood, and of his father's before him. She was bound for London and a new life, bound for Bassett Hall and her new husband.

  Julia's grandfather, now dead and buried in the churchyard, had always said that in life, each time a door closed, another opened. She prayed feverishly that he was right.

  Chapter One

  Bassett Hall

  London, England

  The Earl of St. Martin stood at the window of his new gallery overlooking his gardens. He watched intently as two young women followed a stone path toward a fountain. Both wore heavy cloaks to ward off the October chill, but strands of hair escaped their wool hoods and silk bonnets and fluttered in the wind.

  Annoyed by the vexatious sounds of chewing saws and banging hammers, Simeon glared at the carpenters. He clamped his jaw tight and ground his teeth. Didn't these maggot brains realize they were disturbing his concentration?

  He considered ordering a halt to the construction, just so that he might better enjoy his picturesque autumn garden, but instead, chose to take a deep breath. Inhaling the chilly air, he slowly exhaled warm breath, forcing himself to calm. With this great control, he was able to block out the noise so that he might better enjoy the vision of the sisters.

  His eyelids fluttered at the sight below. He crossed his arms over his chest and brushed his lips with his own pe
rfumed fingers.

  One woman was quite an ordinary blond, but the other, Julia, his betrothed, was simply exquisite. In all his worldly travels, Simeon had never seen hair the color of his beloved's. It was like spun fire, as golden and red as the setting of a Caribbean sun, a sparkling jewel in the midst of the dead garden. Now that fiery hair was his. Those sparkling blue eyes were his. Julia—heart, mind, soul, and body—was his. All his.

  He let out a small sigh of satisfaction and felt his hot breath on his fingertips. He was glad he had agreed to honor the betrothal agreement signed many years ago with the wench's father. Though she was now poor, this connection with her family name would be advantageous. Her father had fought for Charles I and lost most of his lands and possessions to Cromwell. In Charles II's court, her father was a hero. A woman of Julia's distinction could only add to his own importance.

  Simeon slid one foot forward to take a closer look, mesmerized by the way the wind ruffled strands of his Julia's hair. His hand ached to tuck the locks into her hood. He liked nothing out of order, not even his betrothed's hair.

  A coarse figure moved between him and the window, blocking out the sunlight and his vision of beatitude, and Simeon shouted in rage.

  A yellow-haired, filthy-faced mason yelped in surprise and attempted to scurry by, a small pallet of stones propped on one shoulder.

  Simeon cuffed him hard against the back of his greasy head as he slipped past. "Haven't I told you not to step so near me?" he exploded. "Haven't I?" He struck him a second time.

  Knocked off balance, the workman fell headlong to the floor, his stack of building stones scattering as he went down.

  "Get away from me, you filthy turd!"

  The mason scrambled to his feet and darted off, leaving the broken stones in a crumble of dust where they lay.

  Simeon inhaled again, breathing in calm, exhaling anger, as he returned his attention to the window. He removed a handkerchief from his sleeve and wiped his hand where it had touched the mason's dirty hair. Now he would have to return to his bedchamber and wash with strong lye soap.

  Simeon folded the handkerchief carefully so that the soiled part was inside, and returned it to his sleeve. With his clean hand, he smoothed his gray wool coat with the black velvet garniture as his gaze fell upon his betrothed once more.

  Julia and her sister sat on a bench facing him. As the women arranged their cloaks around their knees, he took a step closer to the windows that ran the length of the gallery under construction. Julia was laughing now, as was her dim-witted sister. He wondered what had amused her so. He wondered what he himself could say that would be clever enough to make her laugh with him and purse her rosy lips in such a provocative manner.

  The clacking of heeled shoes on the Italian marble floor caught Simeon's attention. Who dared interrupt him now?

  It was his cousin Griffin; no one else would be so bold. He was dressed in his usual abominable fashion, this morning in lime green and yellow striped breeches with a matching lime green greatcoat with yellow looped ribbons hanging from his shoulder. The heels of his shoes were lemon yellow, as was the hat perched on his black Stuart's wig.

  Behind him trotted a Moor close in age to his master, his skin as dark as ebony against his white turban and flowing robes. Griffin had never voiced his relationship to the man, but Simeon guessed that like many of the fops of Charles's decadent court, Griffin retained him as a sexual plaything as well as a personal servant. The thought disgusted Simeon, but he liked Griffin, so he tried not to think about it.

  "Good morning, Cousin," Simeon offered.

  "Good morning, my villain with a smiling cheek." Griffin removed his befeathered hat and bowed deeply, striking a pretty leg.

  Simeon drew back his lips in a near smile. His cousin was impertinent, but at least he knew his place. He liked a man who knew his place, especially when it was below him. "And where are you bound this morning? I hadn't thought you drew your shades before noon."

  Griffin chuckled as he replaced his ridiculous hat and took his silver-tipped cane from the Moor. "I've a call to make at Whitehall in high chambers. Care to join me?" He buffed his polished fingernails on the sleeve of his coat.

  "No, thank you. I've better matters to attend to than our King's tattletales." Simeon nodded to the window. "Have you seen her?"

  Griffin lifted a plucked eyebrow. "Her, my lord?"

  "My latest acquisition. My betrothed, of course. She's in the garden. Come see." He waved his cousin toward the window.

  "Ah, the blessed Virgin Mary, of course." Griffin drew to the window, his Moor a step behind.

  The men leaned on the unfinished sill and gazed down. At the same moment, Julia looked up toward the gallery. For an instant her face was without emotion, as it had been for the three days since her arrival from Dover, but then, to Simeon's delight, it lit up with the most angelic smile.

  Simeon felt his heart flutter. The smile was for him. So perhaps she didn't dislike him after all, but was simply playing coy as women sometimes did.

  Simeon turned his head to speak to Griffin, and his smile turned to a frown. His cousin was staring intently at his betrothed, too intently, a strange light in his blue eyes. Simeon looked back down into the garden and came to the unpleasant realization that Julia's smile was not for him, but for his foppish cousin.

  A quick anger bubbled up inside Simeon. Witless female, he thought. Fickle. And worse . . . untidy.

  "And yet I love refinement, and beauty and light are for me the same as desire for the sun," Griffin whispered.

  For an instant, his cousin's comely face appeared different to Simeon; the light in his eyes reflected a depth in the man he was certain didn't exist.

  Simeon scowled. His cousin was always babbling something from obscure literature. "God's teeth, I don't know what you're staring at. Everyone knows you prefer the rod!"

  Griffin blinked, and the strange light in his eyes disappeared so quickly that Simeon wondered if he had imagined it.

  "A might dimber wench," Griffin commented lightly. "But by the stars, that hair! Looks like she just tumbled from your sheets, my lord. Do let Monsieur De'nu see what he can do with her coiffure." Once again he was his silly self.

  Simeon took Griffin's comment as a compliment to his manhood and smiled again. "Pleasant tart, isn't she? Nice, firm teats, but then you wouldn't really appreciate that, would you?" He eyed the Moor.

  Griffin fluttered a perfumed handkerchief he had pulled from his coat sleeve like a magician. The man couldn't be insulted.

  "God rot my bowels, you're lewdly bent." Griffin laughed, and Simeon laughed with him.

  Simeon liked Griffin for his wit. That was why he tolerated his vices and was willing to keep him in cloth and coin when his allowance ran short. Simeon liked to keep such men under his thumb. They added to his own notability.

  "Well, I should be on my way. I ordered your coach and four. You don't mind do you, Cousin?"

  "Take it." Simeon gave a flip of his hand, feeling generous. "Keep it all night."

  "Very good, my lord."

  Griffin bowed as deeply as a man bowed to the king. The impudent monkey behind him stood stock-still, staring as if he were blind. Because he was in good humor, Simeon chose to ignore the slight.

  "Good day." Simeon nodded his head.

  "Good day." Griffin backed away, then turned and made his exit from the gallery.

  Julia stared at the man in the window. His hat was so preposterous that she wanted to laugh, and yet there was something about the face beneath the feathers that enticed her. His gaze met hers and she felt light-headed, the way she did when a coach went over a bump and remained airborne for a moment. It was the strangest feeling, not bad, just different.

  Lizzy glanced up and giggled. "See the man in the funny hat?" She covered her mouth with mitted hands and laughed behind them. "They wear silly clothes in London, don't you think, Sister? I see men in face paint and women hanging their bosoms out of their gowns until you can s
ee their nippies."

  Julia didn't answer. She couldn't tear her gaze from the stranger's. She knew St. Martin watched as well. She knew he would think her stare inappropriate, and yet she couldn't help herself.

  It was the stranger who glanced away first.

  Julia lowered her gaze to her lap. Her stomach fluttered. Who was that man? Surely not a servant in such flothery? A friend? Another distant relative? There were so many members of her betrothed's household that she still had not met them all.

  "Sister, I said I'm cold." Lizzy spoke in a tone that implied she'd been forced to repeat herself.

  Julia blinked. "Oh, I'm sorry, Lizzy. Let's go inside then and warm ourselves with a cup of chocolate." She rose from the bench and took her sister's hand. She didn't know what on earth possessed her to stare at the stranger like that. Perhaps Lizzy was right, perhaps it was just his preposterous hat.

  Julia led Lizzy back up the garden path, beneath a bare arched arbor, and through double doors into the rear of the great, sprawling London house. As they entered the dim hallway, a man approached. To her dismay, Julia realized it was the stranger in the hat.

  "Morning, ladies," he called gaily.

  Lizzy giggled. "The feathers of his hat are yellow as a daffodil," she whispered.

  "Shhht!" Julia reprimanded softly. Once again, she couldn't take her gaze off him.

  Like many other men of the king's court whom she had met here in Bassett Hall, his lips were rouged, his high, handsome cheekbones dusted with rice powder, and his, chin was decorated with a half-moon-shaped face patch. His head was covered in a monstrous wig, the same coal black hue that was said to be the king's. He looked the part of every dandy she'd met in the last three days, but there was something different about this man . . . something different about his eyes. They were not vacant like the other fops, but filled with a glistening light . . . a secret.

  "Out early this morning, are we?" he asked. His outrageously high-heeled shoes clacked on the flagstone floor. "Is it chilly? Shall I need my muff?" He swaggered oddly as he walked on tiptoes, his arms slightly extended.

  Never in her life had Julia seen such a theatrical man. She found her voice. "Not . . . not too cold, but windy."